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Blakey the Jakey: A Modern Scottish Fairytale – The Conclusion

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The story so far: as we prepare for the concluding chapter of the Blakey saga, we find our hero in his grandma’s house. He’s lost his money, his family, his self-respect (what little he possessed) and now grandma is the only one who can help him turn things around. In a nutshell: he’s fucked. Or is he? (yes, yes he is)

Catch up with Part 1 – http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/10/btjp1/

Catch up with Part 2 – http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/14/btjp2/

Catch up with Part 3 – http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/22/btjp3/

Catch up with Part 4 –  http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/28/btjp4/

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As Grandma listened, with a mounting sense of boredom, to Blake’s tale of business acumen gone wrong, she occupied herself by burning a chunk off of the armchair and crumbling it into a large cigarette paper.

This was because all of Grandma’s furniture, from the armchair to the sideboard to the footrest to the mantle-piece, was made out of massive, sculpted blocks of cannabis resin. Her footrest alone had a street value of thousands.

‘So, ye sold yer maw’s car tae some jakey at the market, eh? Ye daft wee bastard,’ laughed Grandma, rolling the rest of her fancy cigarette into a perfect cone shape.

‘Aye,’ sighed Blake. ‘and ah cannae go hame till I’ve goat the cash back. She’ll kill me, gran.’

‘Take yin ae ma shelves,’ she said, pointing behind her, ‘Ye’ll make gid profit.’

‘Thanks, gran, that’s magic,’ smiled Blake, clapping his hands with delight.

Grandma indulged herself in a moment of thoughtful inhalation. ‘Aye, son,’ she began, exhaling a jet of sweet-scented smoke in his face, ‘But if ye dinnae pay me back in a week yell get yer knees broken.’

Blake nodded.

‘Ah mean it. Business, family or no. Ye’ll be on crutches.’

Blake actually rose and kissed his grandma. On the forehead, though. And quickly.

The blaring wail of police sirens assaulted his ears before the sound slowed and died, like the batteries had failed. A high-pitched squeal then made way for an echoed-clicking as a policeman’s voice bellowed through a loudspeaker.

‘We know you’re in there, Grandma, the game’s up.’

‘Fuck,’ she lamented.

‘Ho, you, ah didnae lament,’ said an irritated grandma to Jamie Andrew as he wrote her words on this screen, ‘and ah’m no irritated, ah’m fuckin’ furious. Efter ah escape from the police ah’m gonnae come efter you and knock fuck out of you.’

Jamie was certain that Grandma wouldn’t survive her encounter with the police.

‘Third wall?’ laughed Grandma, ‘Jamie Andrew, ah’ll pit you through the fourth, fifth, sixth and fuckin’ seventh wall, ya cunt!’

Anyway, Grandma leapt from her seat and wrenched a shelf from the sideboard, handing it to Blake. Blake accepted it and tucked it firmly into his jacket. The boy looked like he was half a turtle’s head away from destroying his boxer shorts.

‘Get oot the back door and run, Blakey,’ she implored, ‘and take this tae.’

She handed him the cone from her mouth, slapped him on the back and swiftly ushered him towards the kitchen.

As Blake threw open the back door and began his rush into Grandma’s garden, and the hedgerow and park beyond, he could hear her loading her pump-action shotgun and striking up a dialogue with the officers out front.

‘Right, little pigs, come get it!’

‘Grandma, if you don’t let us in we’ll be rough, we’ll be tough and we’ll blow your door down.’

‘No by the hairs oan ma sticky big baws!’

*** 

And so Blake merrily zig-zagged his way through the streets, selling chunks of his shelf along the way until a long line of pink-eyed, crisp-munching pot-heads were shadowing him like a dragon’s tail. The only sounds that could be heard were a hundred or more people crunching Monster Munches, snapping off segments of Dairy Milk bars and frantically trying to re-arrange their JSA appointments on their mobile phones.

‘Follow that wee laddie,’ they shouted.

Blake happily puffed and sucked on his cone: the more it burned, the slower he and his vast procession of stoners became. With stacks of tens, twenties and fifties poking out of his jacket pockets, the happiness overwhelmed him and he began humming, shouting and singing pro-IRA songs, all the while mimicking the playing of a flute.

Children saw the procession and hollered with glee: ‘It’s the pie-eyed Piper of Hampden!’ And they followed.

‘Wait a minute,’ said a confused bystander. ‘Isn’t it more the other side that’s traditionally associated with flute-playing? This muddled sectarian reference doesn’t make any sense!’

‘It’s called creative license, you picky prick,’ said another bystander.

‘It’s called thon Jamie Andrew bein’ a daft cunt,’ giggled grandma as she thundered down the road with her shotgun. ‘And ah’m no gigglin’, ya fuckin’ smart arse!’

***

Blake arrived back at his family home with more than enough money for a new car and a nice holiday. He was eager to make his mother proud and happy. And having a roof over his head and not getting his throat slit was a bonus, too.

‘Hello,’ he shouted, fingers prising open the letterbox. ‘Maw?’ he shouted through it again. ‘Aw, YUK!’ Blake wiped away his piss from earlier with disgust.

Eventually, just as Blake had started kicking the door with all of his might, it opened to reveal his mother, half-naked and with a large half-naked bear of a man by her side.

‘Aw, it’s you,’ she snarled. ‘Thought I told ye no tae come back.’

‘But maw,’ beamed Blake, holding up the money, ‘I goat aw the cash back. Double. Triple even! In fact, ah widnae be surprised if it wiz qua… kawrd… kwardroo… fuckin’ four times as much!’

His mother snatched the money from his hands and stuffed it in her blouse. ‘Gid,’ she smiled, ‘But ye can still piss oaf, because ah met a new man, we’re gettin’ mayried and we’re movin’ tae a different toon.’

‘Bit…’ Blake was aghast. He stared up at the big fellow bear-hugging his mother. ‘You’re the…you’re that bouncer fae the nightclub,’ said Blake.

‘Aye,’ the big man replied, ‘Yer maw was oot dancin’ last week an she loast yin aye er orthy-pedic shoes, fir er corns and that. I kinna thought it wiz hers so ah brought it roond the day, she tried it oan, it fitted and then…well…’

He winked.

‘Then he telt me he had a few boab and pumped us on your bed, ye wee dick,’ beamed his mother, before slamming the door in Blake’s face.

***

Blake found himself sitting back on the grass where all of this had started. He passed the time throwing stones at the neighbours’ cars and listening to his mother’s shrieks of delight from the house.

Before long he felt a large hand on his shoulder.

‘BAD DAY, LITTLE MAN?’ asked the genie.

‘Aye, somethin’ like that.’

‘TELL ME ABOUT IT. I HAD TO QUIT MY JOB TODAY. STRESS. I’M OFF ON ILL HEALTH, CONSIDERING EARLY RETIREMENT.’

‘Aye?’ replied Blake, not really interested; too busy staring at some teenage temptress teetering across the road, all tits and legs. ‘How wiz London, ye ken, wi they seven wee guys in the car?’

‘IT STARTED OFF QUITE BADLY, A BIT MUCH TO TAKE. I FELT BETTER ABOUT IT ALL ONCE I’D DISEMBOWELED THEM AND FED THEIR INNARDS TO THE DOGS, THOUGH. GUESS I’M NOT CUT OUT FOR THIS SORT OF WORK ANYMORE.’

‘Dunno whit ah’m gonnae do either, like. Nae hoose, nae family, nae money.’

‘TELL YOU WHAT,’ smiled the genie, ‘HOW ABOUT I GRANT YOU ONE MORE WISH, ON THE HOUSE. ANYTHING. ANYTHING YOU WANT. I’LL GRANT YOU MY LAST WISH. GO ON, KNOCK YOURSELF OUT.’

Blake stared on as the girl’s tight buttocks swayed out of view. He looked up at the genie with a relieved smile and then back down at the ground. He was thinking hard.

‘COME ON, ANYTHING. MONEY, FAME, WOMEN, POWER, AN ISLAND, A COUNTRY, A HIT RECORD, THE PLAYBOY MANSION, AN ARMY, A PLANET, THE UNIVERSE? ANYTHING! USE YOUR IMAGINATION! HONESTLY, ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING! I WANT TO HELP YOU.’

Blake stood up, full of hope and excitement, finding it hard to restrain the impulse to grab and kiss the genie.

‘It’s goat to be money,’ laughed Blake, jumping with delight, ‘I wish I wiz the richest person in the whole world.’

Blake stopped and stood deathly still, screwed his eyes up expectantly and tensed his shoulders. He expected to open his eyes to see a fortress of gold surrounding him, a throne at his rear and all the women of the world lying like a naked, writhing carpet at his feet. He opened them and all he saw was a giant middle finger pressed into his face.

‘SWIVVEL, YOU LITTLE BITCH. WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS, A FUCKING FAIRY TALE?’

Pouf. And he was gone.

Blake went off in search of some more Buckfast. Not to rub this time. Just to drink.        

THE END

Blakey the Jakey: A Modern Scottish Fairytale – Pt 4

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The story so far: Blakey is having a bad day. He’s been kicked out of his mum’s house, lost all of his money, and missed out on a chance to exploit a genie. Things are looking bleak for Blake for him. Still, at least he’s not part of the Seven Little Wasters’ crew. What a bunch of bawbags they are. Blakey’s last resort is to fall upon the mercy of his grandmother, and that’s where he’s heading now… with a mounting sense of trepidation. You’ll understand why in a minute or so. She’s a ‘character’, and we know what it means when we describe someone in those terms: that they’re fucking mental.

Catch up with Part 1: http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/10/btjp1/

Catch up with Part 2: http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/14/btjp2/

Catch up with Part 3: http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/22/btjp3/

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Grandma’s council house was the only property in the street that was still decked out with Christmas fairy-lights – in March. They stayed flashing and pulsing three hundred and sixty five days a year. It was always Christmas time at grandma’s.

Wooden animals, painted bright and bold, were planted like trees in the over-grown grass. A pink flamingo, leg cocked, sat in the centre of the lawn, surrounded by cheeky monkeys, laughing lions and timid tigers. Little bonzai trees, at the foot of the hedge, lined the inside perimeter of the grass. Red balloons, at least fifteen of them, bounced and floated everywhere. On the front door, a varnished, oval plaque proclaimed, ‘Number 89. Gingerbread House. Catch Me If You Can – You Scum.’

Blake shook his head at the tacky display and gave a furtive glance around as he approached the door. Blake never liked admitting the blood connection between him and Grandma. She could be a tough old bitch but…

‘This yin’s aboot ready fur the nuthoose,’ he scowled, kicking a balloon out of his way.

Blake rapped loudly and quickly on the door, jamming the buzzer with his free hand at the same time. A jet of pressure cascaded down from his shoulders to his toes. He had to get in and out of public view, or he felt like he’d explode.

‘Come oan, come oan!’

Beep! Beep!

Blake heard the sounds of hip-hop hammering the air. He turned around to see a gleaming red hatchback sports car parked on the road outside of his grandma’s gate. The seven little wasters were piled in the front and back, bottles of Buckfast clasped in each of their hands. A large man with a blue turban sat in the driver’s seat – with a very unhappy look on his face.

‘Ho, Blakey boy! Is zat yer girlfriend’s hoose?’

Laughter.

‘Ho, ho! Wait till we tell orra boys in oor street! They’ll pish themsel’s!’

‘Ah didnae ken there wiz a Disney World in this toon!’

Shrill whoops of laughter.

‘Whose yer girlfriend: Minnie Moose?’

Whoop, whoop!

‘Well, cannae hang aroond. We’re aff tae London, go tae Stringfellas an that.’

‘Aye, an Soho! Get wee Harry’s end away!’

‘Ma end’s away, ye cheeky bastard.’

‘Settle, Harry, wankin’ disnae coont, pal!’

‘KILL ME, PLEASE. MAKE IT QUICK.’

Ho, ho. Whoop! Whoop! It was becoming like an episode of Rikki Lake written by Irvine Welsh.

‘Aye, we’ve goat a million poonds, ya dancer!’

A bottle of Buckfast came spinning from the back seat of the car towards Blake.

‘Catch.’

Blake did, firmly between his two hands.

‘Least we can dae.’

‘Noo ye can get pished up and sook yer granny’s baws!’

The car screeched away. Blakey fired off a few salvos of expletives, but the seven little fuckers were too far away to be hit by them.

The door to Grandma’s house opened and Blake shoved his way in before daylight had a chance to cast its revelatory spotlight upon Grandma. The door slammed shut behind him. Before him, fat arms extended and proportionately fat lips pouted.

‘Come gee yer Grannie a big kiss, Blakey.’

‘Eh…nut. Ah dinnae think so.’

She snatched the Buckfast from his hands and kissed it instead.

‘Hey, whit are ye…,’ Blake began to protest.

‘Dinnae start shit, Blakey, or ye’ll be through that wa’.’

Blake let out a sigh of defeat, shrugged his shoulders, and then laid his rucksack by the door. Blake’s grandma placed the Buckfast on the kitchen counter and then returned to the hall.

‘Dinnae mention it, gran.’

Blake’s gran wore a criminally short skirt, orange nylon tights, stilt-like high heel shoes, a floral patterned boob tube, and her face contained enough make-up to allow a clown to feel natural. This might have been acceptable attire if, for one, they had both lived in an alternative universe (or San Francisco); for second, if grandma had been younger; for third, if she didn’t have tattoos encrusting half of her body, a large scar cascading down her cheek, and biceps to make a post-spinach Popeye sweat; and, most importantly, fourthly: if grandma had been a woman. A fat cigar was jammed into the left side of grandma’s mouth, dripping hot ash onto the carpet and sending plumes of acrid smoke up Blake’s nostrils.

‘Get ben that kitchen and get the tea on or I’ll gee ye a fisting ye’ll never forget.’

Grandma burst through into her living room leaving Blake, ashen white, to deal with the tea.

The kitchen door was slightly ajar and Blake could hear voices drifting through as he filled the kettle with water.

‘My, grandma, what big hands you have.’

‘Aye, a’ the better tae grab ye with!’

‘My, grandma, what a big mouth you have.’

‘Aye, a’ the better tae plluggg mummble gobbo shlurp en floosre…’

‘Ho, grandma, mind thay big teeth on ma jed, will ye?’

‘Mmmmm mmmm mmmm mmmmm.’

‘My, grandma, what’s this huge thing? What an absolutely massive big, fat, hard co…’

The screeching whistle of the boiling kettle never did announce itself at a more appropriate moment. Blake kicked the kitchen door firmly shut and tried to stymie his third panic attack of the week.

Grandma eventually entered the kitchen, adjusting her bra and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Blake could hear the front door as it slammed shut. A set of lipstick-stained teeth grinned at Blake.

‘Just seeing yer grandpa off,’ stated Grandma in her deep, husky voice. Grandma whipped a tenner out of her bra and shoved it into Blake’s hand. ‘Take that, son, yer grandpa owed me that fir a job ah did fir him last week.’

Blake gagged back a faint dribble of vomit.

Blake’s grandpa was also a man. His grandpa visited his grandma six to seven times a day, six days a week and managed to be a completely different man each time.

‘So whit can ah dae fir ye, Blakey, son? Ye only ever visit yer poor grandma when yer hiding fae ma sister or efter something. So which yin is it?’

‘Baith, grandma. Baith.’

‘Ah’ll bet it’s money.’

‘Aye, grandma. Jist a loan, ken?’

‘It’s no for drugs is it, Blakey?’ she asked, issuing a cold stare.

‘Naw, gran, naw.’

‘Right,’ she nodded, satisfied, ’cause there’s nae need fir that. You shid huv the gid sense to deal so ye can get them for free, ken?’

‘Aye, gran.’

‘Gid boy. Noo, get they teas, ye wee cunt, an let’s go ben the living room.’

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CONCLUDES NEXT WEEK.

Blakey the Jakey: A Modern Scottish Fairytale – Pt 3

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The story so far: Blakey squandered the last of his family’s financial reserves on strange, magical beans – with rather a high street value – which earned him banishment from his mother’s council flat. He found a bottle of Buckfast and discovered a genie inside. Unfortunately, things didn’t go according to plan and Blakey was left without a single wish fulfilled. Well, sort of. As we left him, he was off on a journey to his grandma’s house: his last hope. This is part 3, something you’ve probably deduced from the title of the post. 

Catch up with Part 1: http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/10/btjp1/

And Part 2: http://www.jamieandrew-withhands.com/2012/06/14/btjp2/

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It was nearing lunchtime and Blake was on his way to grandma’s. The sun peeped its head out from behind a huddle of clouds, draping a warm sheen over the maze of cloned streets. Blake wiped his brow and licked his dry lips. A hackle-rising niggle began to gnaw at his limbs and head, as his bloodstream screamed out for a fag. No money though.

But there was always a way to get fags. It took him close to forty-five minutes to forage for glass juice bottles, the length and breadth of the neighbourhood, so that he could afford a packet of Mayfair with the twenty-pence-a-time glass deposits. Not a wheely-bin nor a hedge nor a single lawn was left unturned in the frantic search.

In one of the gardens along the way he saw a group of five students, four of them mad-eyed and rolling in the grass. The fifth was sparking his lighter and staring at the flame slack-jawed, as if it was the most impressive thing he had ever seen, or ever would see.

‘Wow.’

They were like a gaggle of extras from ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’.

‘Terry, the sky’s falling down, the sky’s falling down, man! Look!’

‘So it is! What are we going to dae? The sky’s falling doon!’

‘Some’dy huz tae tell the Queen!’

‘Christ, we have to tell somebody!’

‘Wow. Better tell them it’s green too, man.’

‘Let’s go.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Maybe that buffalo over there’ll know the way,’ whined one of them, pointing at Blake.

After suggesting that they go and procreate with themselves, Blake made his way briskly to the convenience store: rucksack, coat and arms bulging with clinking, bulky bottles.

***

Blakey went awa’ doon Chally D.

A drooling pack of seven little teenage boys – average age twelve – were crowded near the entrance to the store. A battery powered ghetto-blaster lay in their midst, pumping out the aggressive thump of American hip-hop – a musical message from one ghetto to another. Here were seven mini-Eminems in the making.

Blake watched as a gaunt young woman, clad in a sheepskin coat and a belt-like mini-skirt, took a slightly off-balanced journey across the precinct from the doors of the motel to the pub adjoining it.

The seven little hip-hoppers saw her and began wolf whistling.

‘There’s that prossie again!’ one of them jeered.

‘Look at her, she’s well off her tits on somethin’!’

‘Go’n yersel, hen!’

‘She’s a ho!’ one shouted.

‘Aye, a high ho!’

‘High ho!’ another one laughed.

‘Get yersel’s a job, ye cheeky wee buggers, off tae work yez go!’ yelled an old man at the bus stop, raising a fist and waving his walking stick.

‘Fat chance, ye auld duffer!’ one of them screeched.

The prostitute waddled through the double swing-doors of the bar, disappearing with two fingers aloft, directing them back at the menacing rabble.

‘Aye, we ken whaur they fingers hiv been, hen!’

Riotous laughter erupted.

As soon as they saw Blake approaching the doors of the shop, the seven wasters flurried deeper into activity, bouncing around and howling his name out.

‘Blake, man, Blakey pal!’

‘Go’n get us a bottle ay Buckie, sir!’

‘Aye, we need Buckfast, like!’

***

It was almost a rite of passage in the town: the misappropriation of Buckfast for the too young by the almost old enough. No doubt in some distant pocket of the future, Blake’s children would be buying Buckfast for their children and so on and so forth. Almost tradition. Blake agreed to their request and took their money, which was more a fistful of coppers than a fistful of dollars.

Blake first approached the serving counter to off-load the glass bottles and then slipped the reciprocal packet of fags into his coat pocket. Result! As he sauntered off and started perusing the drinks aisle, Blake received a few askance glances from the husband and wife duo behind the till.

‘What the Hell is he doing?’ whispered the wife.

‘I’ve no idea, Margaret,’ replied Johnny, her husband. ‘Each generation’s getting scarier than the next.’

They kept watching him, glad that they had never had children of their own.

‘Come oan, ye wee buggers, I ken yer in there,’ Blake snarled, rubbing vigorously at every bottle on the shelf. ‘Come oot! Come oot and gee me a million poonds!’

‘Shall I phone the police, Johnny?’ she whispered, a hint of fear shadowing her features.

‘No, Margaret,’ he sighed, ‘I think it’s the doctor that boy needs.’

A flash of fake ID and a sigh of relief later, Blake was presenting the Buckfast to the seven thirsty little skivers. They were characteristically grateful.

‘Effin’ magic!’ one cried.

‘Top-class, sir!’ yelled another.

‘Woooo!’ another one simply said.

‘Aye, cheers, Blake. You want a swally?’

‘Nah, better no, lads,’ said Blake, ‘ah’m goin’ tae ma grans. She’ll hae sum in the fridge, like.’

A chorus of chuckles. ‘Nice one, big man.’

‘So whit ar yoose boys goin’ tae dae?’ asked Blake, taking out a fag and jamming it in between his lips.

‘Sum guy’s gonnae meet us behind the joab centre. He’ll hae Snow White way ‘im.’

Blake raised his eyebrows. ‘Whit?’ he asked.

Seven little fingers reached to seven little nostrils and they all gave a heaving, over-exaggerated sniff before descending into manic laughter once more.

‘Snaw White,’ winked the ringleader.

Blake resumed his trek to grandma’s, shaking his head as he left behind Dopey, Flunky, Junkie, Cokey, Skin-full, Ear-full and Doc (on account of his Doctor Marten boots).

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TO BE CONTINUED

PART 4 COMING NEXT WEEK

Blakey the Jakey: a Modern Scottish Fairytale – Pt 1

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‘You did whit, Blakey?’

‘I sold the car, maw.’

A sharp slap echoed across his hollow cheeks.

‘Whit did ye sell the Escort fur, ye wee bugger?’

‘Fur a load ay magic beans, maw.’

Another slap clapped across Blake’s already stinging cheek.

‘I didnae ask whit ye goat fur it, ah said whit did you sell it fur!’

‘Fur money, maw. This guy at the market said he’d gee us loads ay money fur it.’ A sliver of snotters sniffed their way back up Blake’s nostrils and a grazed knuckle rose to sweep away a clove of tears. ‘Yer aye sayin’ yer efter a holiday, ah thought I wid get ye the money for yin, cheer ye up, like.’

Whoosh. Slap. Oyah!

‘Cheer me up? Whit holiday am ah gonnae git wae magic bloody beans, ye wee toley? And noo I’ve no goat a car!’

Blake’s mother slumped her plump frame into a chair and began to sob her woes out over the kitchen table. Blake felt helpless. He sunk a clammy palm onto her shoulder. Sensing his guilt and sadness, she rammed her elbow into his stomach.

‘Bugger aff!’ she wept.

‘But, maw,’ whined Blake, glad that the elbow hadn’t sunk any lower, ‘we kin sell the Magic Beans. Guy at the market says we kin make a killin’, like.’

The sobs clicked off. ‘The only killin’ around here’ll be dun by me, ye wee tyke,’ she spat, ‘An ah could caw ye worse than that, the way am feelin’ the noo, ye wee useless cunt!’

Blake reached into the pocket of his jeans and took out the small, clear plastic pouch containing the beans. He waggled them in front of his mother’s face.

‘Let’s sell them, maw, let’s sell the hings. Ah’ll get the money back, promise ah wull.’

Blake’s mother shot to her feet, grabbed the packet of beans, stormed over to the open window and tossed them down onto the grass below. She pirouetted in a whirlwind of rage to face his downcast head, and laid down upon it a demand for exile.

‘First thing the morra’s mornin’, you’re oot o this hoose, or ah’ll bloody fling you oot the windae!’

***

And so, as the moon revolved into its night-time slot, knocking the sun down below the horizon, the nocturnal denizens of Grangemouth scurried out from the back of supermarkets, from bus shelters, from alley ways and from play-parks, to gather in the flickering lamp-lit streets like zombies from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.

As if driven by some deep, buried instinct, they found the packet of Magic Beans lying in the grass at the foot of Blakey’s flat. A circle of baseball caps peered down, before a cygnet-ringed hand scooped them up and held them aloft. A cry of feral triumph whooped into the air.

In the morning, the magic beans were missing: presumed gubbed.

Outside the kitchen window, twelve baseball caps saluted skyward from the grass, attached to twelve bleary bodies in varying states of consciousness. A ghetto blaster, powered by a length of extension cable, bang-thud-jerked its techno-menace over the still-sleepy street.

A lone ‘dancer’ – the term applying loosely – shuddered violently to the beat of the bass-line, a carnival of jutting, punching limbs. His pupils shifted from big to small, like some demented camera lens, and sweat lashed his exposed skin.

‘They beans are magic, sir!’ he exclaimed with ecstasy, lost in the dance.

The kitchen window of the Blake household flew open on its hinges and the curler-clad head of Blake’s mum burst out.

‘Ho, John Travolta!’ she yelled to the ‘dancer’, ‘Shut that bloody racket aff, wake up that pile a’ deed ducks on ma gress an’ bugger aff the lot o’ ye!’

The slam of the window acted as a gunshot to the frightened herd of ravers. Twelve sets of heels pelted down the street, ‘John Travolta’ dancing after them as fast as he could. The wail of an encroaching police siren only encouraged him to dance harder.

‘Tha’s magic, sir!’ he exclaimed, ‘Ah didnae ken they’d released that tune yet!’

One of the fleeing mob ran back and dragged him kicking and dancing around the corner to safety.

***

The street was quiet again. Somebody had already stolen the ghetto blaster, but then it had been stolen in the first place.

Blake sat on the pavement outside of his flat, head in hands, rucksack slung over a bony shoulder. With all of the beans gone, Blake had a mammoth mission ahead of him: find a way to make back money for both car and holiday or… he didn’t even want to think about the ‘or else’ part.

The odds seemed insurmountable. Not to Blake, of course, simply because the boy had no idea what ‘insurmountable’ meant. Blake’s ilk juggled with a few balls less in their vocabulary, but perhaps their stripped vernacular was more efficient in its expressiveness.

‘Fuck,’ he sighed. ‘Fuckin’ shite.’

As if sensing his heavy heart, the magical powers above granted some hope to Blake in liquid form. Pouf!

‘Did some cunt just caw us a poof?’ snapped Blake.

The boy noticed quickly that an object had appeared next to him from thin air. He was bright that way.

‘Where’d that come fae?’ whispered Blake, puzzlement ruffling his brow as he eyed the newcomer. He reached to his right and clasped the ancient-looking glass bottle in his hand. Someone, or something, had scrawled ‘Drink Me’ in the film of dust covering the green bottle. Blake obeyed.

The magical brew tasted to Blake like a mixture somewhere between cough syrup and paint stripper. With a bit of piss thrown in for good measure. It did not take many gulps for the hope-shunned youngster to fall under its spell. A few gulps more and he was entranced. Half the bottle, and his eyes became windows to worlds of magic, his stomach slosh-pit to the ebbs and flows of wonder. The tonic – health-giving though it seemed – was not enough to quell the anger that had built in him since the evening before.

Just then, a gaunt old man shuffled out from a neighbouring block of flats and made his sure-but-steady way towards him. A shell suit hung on his rag-and-wrinkle body and a silver-flecked moustache obscured his top lip. Various species of crumb made the hairy monstrosity their home.

It was Jack the Alike. No one liked him, but he always seemed to be everywhere, rather like Gok Wan. ‘Whit’re ye drinkin’, Blakey son?’ he croaked.

‘Dinnae ken,’ hiccuped Blake, ‘Whit’s it tae you, ye auld fanny?’

Instantly bored by ‘Jack the Alkie’ and agitated by his unwelcome presence, Blake distractedly rubbed at his magical bottle. Dust smeared his palm.

‘It’s guid tae share, son,’ smiled old Jack, a mossy tongue licking at chapped lips, ‘gee auld Jack a swally, noo.’

‘Ma maw aye says that ah’m no supposed tae talk tae strange auld men on account that they might turn oot to be dirty peedos like yersel, ken?’

Jack’s top lip trembled beneath its hairy camouflage. His burst-veined cheeks flashed crimson.

‘Ye ungrateful wee bastard! Efter aw I did fur this country… If it wisnae fur the likes ay Auld Jack, well, you’d be a lad in trouble, that’s fur sure! I did time in a POW camp fur wee shites like yersel’!’

Blake took another teasing swig from the bottle.

‘Ken whit, Auld Jack, I wish the bloody Germans had kept ye.’

Pouf! Old Jack seemed to implode to the size of a marble in seconds, leaving a brilliant white flash of light and a veil of smoke in his wake. As Blake recovered from this optical onslaught, blinking and cursing his sight back to 20/20, he saw before him, through a grey, choking cloud, a bearish, blubbery gent, skin the colour of rust, with a large, blue turban writhing and teetering on top of his head. A giant pair of arms was folded against his massive, shining chest.

‘THAT WAS YOUR FIRST WISH,’ he boomed.

———————————————————————————————————————–

TO BE CONTINUED

PART 2 COMING LATER IN THE WEEK…